


Twelfth Night at the Opera

by InNately



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Comedy of Errors, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), F/F, False Identity, Fluff, Genderswap, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Like truly gratuitous ones, Shakespeare Quotations, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21589384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNately/pseuds/InNately
Summary: Zira loves the opera desperately, and finally decides to participate first-hand rather than just watching like she usually does. (She’s been a bit bored these last few decades, as her Adversary has been incorrigibly, unrepentantly asleep.) Luckily, she’s a dab hand at the viola, but unluckily, women aren’t allowed in the orchestra at the Royal Opera House. And Heaven’s put her on probation for overuse of miracles, so she can’t just change herself into a man with the snap of her fingers like she normally would; she’ll have to get a bit more creative.And as if that weren't enough, she’ll have to figure out how to maintain some kind of cover around Rosalind Anthony, the mysterious diva playing Violetta . . .
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38
Collections: Fluffy Omens





	Twelfth Night at the Opera

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written. Melodrama! Mistaken identities! Gender swapping! Opera! Really over-the-top Shakespeare references! This fic really has it all.
> 
> I re-read a lot of Shakespeare before writing this, but I didn’t do much research on the operatic side of things besides listening to _La Traviata_ on repeat, so please forgive any anachronisms, blatant errors, etc.
> 
> Most of the dialogue spoken in "Rosalind's" dressing room is quoted or adapted from a whole bundle of Shakespeare plays.

_London, circa 1900_

Zira thought there might be nothing in the world she loved quite so well as the opera. Cakes were up there, certainly, and fine wines, and long evenings spent with . . . well, anyway, the point was that she adored the music, and the dressing up, and the drama, and the all-around experience, really. 

And it was time, she felt, that she take a break from simply _watching_ and give it a go as a participant. Over the years, Zira had gotten her fingers in a lot of artistic pies (er, figuratively speaking)—with phases as a poet, painter, sculptor, and most recently dancer—but somehow she’d never yet been in an orchestra.

It would be fun! Besides, she reasoned, musicians as a whole were a class of people who could certainly use a little heavenly influence, and she would be much better equipped to help them if she lived among them for a while. So it was all perfectly in Heaven’s best interest for her to take part in the upcoming production of _La Traviata_ at the Royal Opera House.

Luckily, she was a dab hand at the viola already. It helped to be an immortal being who never slept; she’d had plenty of hours to practice, especially this last century or so, with Crowley sleeping- She cut that thought off before it had a chance to fully form. 

(No sense dwelling on something she couldn’t change; Lord knew she’d tried waking the demon up countless times over the first couple of decades, to no avail. Zira would just have to trust that Crowley would wake up when she was good and ready.)

Not so luckily, anyway, women were not allowed in the orchestra. Not that Zira was, strictly speaking, a woman, but she was a woman-shaped being nearly all the time, and she didn’t think the orchestra manager would likely be swayed by even the most well-reasoned argument about gender being a human social construct.

And so the name that miraculously found itself on the roll sheet for the orchestra’s viola section was “Orlando Fell,” a name Zira had not used since she’d last taken on a male form, in roughly 1770. (She couldn’t say why, but she preferred to appear as a woman unless there was a strong incentive to do otherwise, and those occasions had grown rarer and rarer over the millennia.)

Miracling her pseudonym onto the books had only been the first of many miracles she’d had to perform, of course; she’d also had to alter some memories so no one would think to question her background or qualifications when she showed up to rehearsal, and naturally she’d had to conjure up a few era-appropriate suits—Zira might prefer to wear vintage, but the dress code for musicians at the opera house was strict. 

Then she’d had to play around with various faces and hairstyles to try to find a male guise that suited her. She might have gotten a little carried away, perhaps, trying out dozens of combinations of hairstyles and noses and eyebrows, but it was important that she feel comfortable in her new persona! She had just settled on the perfect fit, which was not so unlike her usual, but with a distinctly more masculine face—shortened lashes, bushier eyebrows, thinner lips, a broader nose—and with her white-blonde curls cut short to form a slightly fluffy halo around her head. She was admiring her new, rather handsome look in her bedroom mirror when, with a clap of dramatic thunder, an envelope materialized in front of her, hovering a few inches from her face and sealed with (she gulped) Gabriel’s sigil.

She opened it hastily and began to read:

_To the Principality Aziraphale:_

_We have detected a surge of divine energy issuing from your residence, and we can find no record of any request on your part for a dispensation of this magnitude. As this is your third (3rd) infraction in this decade alone, we have no choice but to place you on probation for the next one (1) month, effective immediately._

_Any miracles you wish to perform during this period will require advance authorization from your presiding officer. We trust that you will use this interval to reflect upon how you might best serve our holy mission moving forward._

_Blessings,_

(Followed by an illegible signature that blazed painfully with sanctimoniousness)

“Oh, drat!” Zira cried, stamping a foot in irritation. What was she going to do now? She’d done her face to perfection, but she hadn’t altered a thing below the neck! Her body was still decidedly woman-ish—buxom, even—and there was no chance her probation officer would grant her permission to fix it. But she’d already arranged everything else, and in fact she’d be letting her section down if Orlando Fell failed to turn up to the first rehearsal!

And a month was such a long time! Rehearsals were only set to last a week ( _La Traviata_ was standard repertoire; all the professional musicians had played it dozens of times before), and then the actual opera was only running for a fortnight after that. By the time she had her normal powers back, the show would be over.

Zira took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It must be possible to pull this off without her powers, she knew it must. She’d been around for Shakespeare, after all, and remembered the delightfully confusing days of women who disguised as men who then played women who disguised themselves as men . . . Surely Zira could go about this caper the, er, old-fashioned way. Especially since her freshly-miracled face would put her at an advantage.

So it was that Orlando Fell—having made some inquiries with a corsetière of a certain, specialized reputation—reported to the Royal Opera House for the first rehearsal of _La Traviata_ , looking rather dapper indeed with her soft curls, boyish face, bound chest, and perfectly tailored suit. 

She made her way to the artist’s entrance, which was much less grand than the main entryway, but she found it thrilling nonetheless. From there, she ducked through dimly-lit, winding hallways, quivering with excitement as she followed the scrawled signs pointing toward the pit. This was it, the dreamy bohemian artist’s life that she’d read of in so many books!

The pit was mostly full when she arrived, and she had to wind past a dozen or so black-clad musicians to get to her seat. (She’d assigned herself to the last chair in the section. She wasn’t here to show off or make a splash, just to enjoy herself.)

Her stand mate appeared to have arrived a minute or two earlier; he was just tuning his instrument when she sat down. A large man with broad shoulders and a rather dramatic black goatee, he flashed her a quick smile of welcome. 

“You must be Orlando?” he asked, politely curious, as she pulled her viola from its case.

“Yes, that’s me,” Zira replied in a deep, booming voice that she’d been practising for days. And which she quickly abandoned, seeing the look of puzzlement that crossed the man’s face. She coughed. “Er, sorry,” she continued, reverting to her normal voice (which hopefully sounded androgynous enough), “had a frog in my throat. Pleased to meet you, Mr. . . . ?”

“My name’s Oliver, but everyone calls me Puck.” He grinned, managing to look surprisingly impish for someone so burly.

Zira smiled back, but was prevented from continuing their conversation by the sharp tap of the conductor’s baton coming from the front of the pit. 

“Are we ready, everyone?” the conductor—a formidable old man by the name of Sir Peter Quince—began briskly. “Let’s take it from rehearsal G, I know that’s always a problem section for the winds.” And just like that, they were off and running.

Zira was thrilled; she found herself working hard, harder than she had in centuries, but it scarcely mattered when she was so caught up in the sweep of the music, and the practically holy union of all these souls working together to create it. 

They worked through the trickiest bits of the opera quickly, and she was exceedingly glad that she’d practised and researched as much as she had beforehand. Unable to use miracles to smooth her way through the hard parts, she found she had to hang on for dear life to keep up with her section.

When the conductor called an end to the day’s rehearsal, Zira felt as if she were waking from a daze; the clock on the wall indicated that it was somehow already early evening.

Puck turned to her with another flashy smile. “This is your first time playing here, yeah?” Zira nodded. “Listen, the lads and I go down to this pub most nights after rehearsal. The Barefoot Friar. You’re welcome to come along, if you’d like.”

Zira beamed back at him. This was exactly the sort of thing she’d hoped to find among her fellow musicians: good will and companionship. Things she’d been sorely missing, these last decades. (Best not to dwell, she reminded herself firmly.)

“I’d be delighted to join you,” she said. “Lead the way, my dear boy.”

They made quite a crowd at the pub, where the bartender was obviously expecting them. He even seemed enthusiastic to serve them, Zira was pleased to see; the opera house paid its musicians relatively well, and it seemed her companions did not skimp on their tips. 

Puck took her under his wing, rapidly introducing her to his drinking companions. There was Ferdinand, a jocular trombonist with crooked teeth. Sebastian, on oboe, was elegant as anything, if perhaps self-assured to a fault. Lysander and Valentine—alike enough to be twins, but with a rather different sort of closeness if Zira was any judge—were both violinists, while the gruff but quietly amusing Fabian played double bass.

As merry a band as any Zira had had the pleasure of drinking with, she thought. And she was pleased to find it was practically effortless to keep up her male disguise; as she’d learned from thousands of years of experience, humans saw what they expected to see and heard what they wanted to hear. Besides, her companions kept up such a teasing rapport amongst themselves that Zira scarcely needed to contribute to the conversation.

She was basking in the warm glow of camaraderie and good beer when she found herself distracted by a titter from behind her. She whirled around to see that Sebastian had left their group and insinuated himself among a tableful of very fashionable ladies, their hair piled high on their heads and waists narrowed by corsets. Sebastian seemed to know them quite well, and when one of the ladies burst into a little twitter of song, Zira recognized who they must be: the ladies of the opera, the singers the orchestra would be performing with (whom Zira had yet to encounter, since the orchestra was rehearsing without them for a couple of days first).

One of them, a brunette with the pinkest lips the angel had seen in several decades, caught Zira’s eye and looked her up and down appreciatively. Zira swallowed, turning beet red. Oh dear, she was drunker than she’d realized, to be so affected by a flirtatious glance from a pretty lady. She hadn’t been drinking much at all, these last decades, since it was ever so much less fun when you were alone, and-

Puck clapped her on the shoulder, making her jump. “All right there, Orlando? Olivia there catch your fancy? Can’t say I blame you.” He chuckled. 

Zira scrambled, mortified at having been caught staring. “Ah, er, I mean-“ she stuttered. “I’m not really, er . . .”

Puck shot her a measuring look. “Barking up the wrong tree, is she? Do you prefer boys?” 

“Er, no, not at all! And she’s gorgeous, really, it’s just that I, ah-“ Zira trailed off, with the sense that she was digging herself deeper into a hole with every word.

“Come on then, I’ll introduce you to the ladies. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine once you get to know each other.” 

In general, the singers became much less intimidating once Zira had a chance to speak with them. Olivia did keep throwing her smouldering looks, which she did her best to ignore; she wasn’t especially interested in that kind of thing with humans, and anyway getting intimate with one of her fellow musicians while she was half-disguised as a man could make things complicated quickly.

Zira mainly kept quiet in the expanded group, too, preferring to enjoy the humans’ easy familiarity with one another. Plus, she could learn such useful information this way! The ladies were rather prone to gossip, and Zira was able to start gathering a list of souls in need of blessing, just as soon as she had her powers back. Sylvia, who was playing Violetta’s friend Flora, was mourning a miscarriage; in a month or two she’d be pregnant again, and Zira would make sure she’d carry to term this time. And poor Demetrius, who played the Marchese d’Obigny, was addicted to laudanum; it would take just the lightest brush of angelic power to free him from his dependence.

The conversation kept returning to the opera’s leading lady. The actress playing Violetta was the subject of several conflicting rumours, each more intriguing than the last. 

One woman insisted she was from one of the great noble families of Florence, raised in luxury among the finest salons of the continent, while others said that she was a homegrown prodigy, a nightingale born to working-class parents from Leeds. Still others thought they’d heard she was a runaway American, the disgrace of an old Bostonian family who’d fled to Europe to escape their stifling Puritan ways. 

Lysander piped up that he’d heard she never ate, but survived on only coffee and red wine.

“Whiskey, too,” one of the ladies corrected him. “And sometimes she disappears for days at a time. And then just smiles all coy and mysterious-like behind those odd glasses of hers, and says she needed her beauty rest. If anyone else tried to pull something like that the director would sack them in a heartbeat, but apparently she’s _special_.” 

There was some eye-rolling at that, but not as much as Zira might have expected. Most of the company appeared to agree that she was indeed special, though they couldn’t pin down why or how.

The only things everyone seemed to know for sure were that her name was Rosalind Anthony, and she had the most beautiful voice any of them had ever heard. Several of the ladies looked positively green with envy, Zira noted. Once she had her powers back, she’d have to see what she could do to ease their jealousy and nudge their minds down more charitable paths.

* * *

The days flew by, with hours and hours of rehearsals followed by nights at the pub with the crew of humans who, Zira realized with delight, she was beginning to consider her friends. It had been so long since she’d had proper companionship with humans; they were so short-lived it hardly seemed worth the trouble. But Crowley’s prolonged absence had eaten at her happiness in ways she could no longer deny; at some point in these last couple of millennia, she’d grown- _dependent_ on the demon. For company. Companionship. Friendship, even, she dared say. Anyway, she was immensely glad to have found a group of people to rely on, to give her purpose.

The same group of musicians typically showed up at the pub each night, though more singers started joining them after the first few days, once the orchestra and vocalists had started rehearsing together. Olivia appeared most nights, and kept trying to corner Zira into private conversation. Luckily, the pub was more set up for affable socializing than for quiet intimacy, and so Zira had managed never to let herself be alone with the singer; she simply had no idea what to do about the woman’s attraction to her fabricated male persona.

The instrumentalists and singers were still fairly separate during the workday, with Zira and her fellow players down in the pit while the singers waltzed about on stage. And so it was, as opening night approached, that Zira had still never laid eyes on the enigmatic Rosalind Anthony, who never came out for drinks like the rest of the cast. 

But her _voice_. She sang like a nightingale, like moonlight shining on a tranquil sea, and when the opera took its tragic turn, her lament put Zira in mind of a dying star. The angel, playing away in the pit with the rest of the orchestra, would find tears streaming down her face every time Violetta met her devastating end. Zira was a literal angel, but she didn’t think she’d ever heard a sound quite so divine. 

And so, if the singer was a little aloof, a little odd, well, how could anyone hold it against her?

* * *

It was the night before the premier, and Zira had packed up after rehearsal and was making her way out toward the artist’s entrance, all ready to head to the pub like usual. 

But then she saw Olivia, making her way through the press of musicians with a determined look on her face. 

Zira panicked slightly, and did the first thing she could think of: she turned and ran the other way. (It was cowardly, she knew, but she had no idea how to let a human down gently! Normally she’d just use a hint of power to direct their affections elsewhere and all would be well!)

She ducked through the narrow corridors, which were thankfully rather full; it would be fairly easy for her to weave her way through the crowds and hopefully Olivia would lose track of her. Oh, she missed her powers dreadfully! How did humans manage?

The backstage corridors were winding and confusing, and Zira found herself at a dead end before she knew it. She had no idea what she’d say to Olivia if the poor dear caught up with her now, so she tried the door in front of her. The handle turned, to her relief, and Zira slipped in, shutting the door silently behind her.

She blinked around the room, which was far grander than she’d have expected to find in the artists’ catacombs. This must, she realized, be the dressing room for the show’s leading lady. 

And indeed, she could hear the sound of two women talking, though her view was blocked by a set of heavy curtains that divided the room. Of course, this meant that the room’s occupants couldn’t see Zira, either. 

This proved fortunate, since one of the voices that carried through the muffling curtains was unmistakably-

_Crowley._

Zira stood stock still, her breath caught in her throat. After all this time- She’d given up waiting, had thought the demon might sleep ‘til Judgment Day, and now-

“Help me with my hair, will you, Perdita?”

“Of course, Lady Rosalind,” said another voice, a young woman’s from the sound of it.

 _Rosalind._ Zira was thunderstruck again. The enigmatic diva starring in the production—suddenly the rumours swirling around her began to make much more sense.

“You look pale this evening!” came the teasing voice of Perdita—Crowley’s assistant, Zira could only assume. “What is it, my lady? Are you ill? Or-" The woman chuckled. "-perhaps in love?”

Crowley snorted, and Zira could almost hear the scowl in her voice as she retorted, “You may find me pale with anger, with sickness, or with hunger, Perdita, but never with love.”

“What my lady says, far be it from me to deny,” Perdita replied, sounding skeptical. “So I suppose you will never marry, then?”

Crowley laughed, sounding perhaps a little bitter to Zira’s practiced ear. “Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant dust? To make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, I’ll none.”

Perdita laughed back at her. “Nature never framed a woman’s heart of prouder stuff than yours, I’m sure. But beware of playing at Beatrice, or you may find yourself ‘overmastered’ by some Benedick.”

“Oh, shut it! What's gotten into you this evening, anyway?” Crowley snapped, but there was affection in her voice; Zira wondered ( _not_ jealously, that would be ridiculous) how long the two had known each other. This Perdita seemed clever and charming to a fault. “Go get my coat; we shall be leaving presently.”

If Zira hadn’t been distracted with concerns as to the precise nature of Crowley and Perdita’s relationship—which was of course none of her business—she might have thought to escape then. But before she could, Perdita drew aside a curtain and appeared next to Zira. 

“Oh!” the young woman cried, surprised. “Who might you be?”

“I, ah-“ Zira’s mind went blank. Perdita was staring at her with startled, concerned eyes; she had to say _something_.

And blame it on the melodrama of the opera she'd been immersed in for the past week, maybe, or blame it on all the Shakespeare that she’d been reading to fill in the time while Crowley’d been asleep, but the first thing she could think of was this:

“I am come on behalf of my master, a man of some means who wishes to make his intentions known to the lady,” Zira said, trying to sound confident.

Perdita looked Zira up and down doubtfully. “Well, I can certainly see if Lady Rosalind will see you . . .” And she disappeared back through the curtain. 

Zira couldn’t quite hear what Perdita said to Crowley, but she made out a few words: “Says his master wants to _woo_ you . . . bright blond hair . . . funny eyebrows . . .“ Zira winced; she knew she’d overdone them a bit.

“Well, send him in, this should be entertaining, at least,” Crowley replied, loud enough that she clearly meant it to be heard.

And Perdita reappeared, drawing aside the curtain and beckoning Zira forward. Oh dear, Zira thought, _oh dear_. She hadn’t thought this through at all. 

She braced herself, and stepped through the curtain. 

And there was Crowley, lazing on a chaise longue in front of a wide mirror, resplendent and radiant and more beautiful than ever. Zira’s heart ached at the sight. 

For a few long moments, she stared in spellbound silence, too struck with relief at the sight of her oldest, dearest friend to speak. 

And Crowley appeared equally dumbstruck. Oh no, Zira had been recognized, even through her disguise, Crowley would know her anywhere, of course-

But then something shifted in Crowley’s expression, and her lips twitched into a smirk. “My assistant tells me you have a message for me, servant?”

Zira was crestfallen, which was an utterly silly thing to feel. She should be delighted that Crowley hadn’t recognized her. These were rather embarrassing circumstances under which to become reacquainted after all this time, what with Zira’s halfway-accomplished disguise and her mortifying probation—it would be dangerous, really, to expose her true self to any demon, even Crowley, without being able to use her powers to defend herself—but even so, Zira felt almost wounded that Crowley didn't immediately know who she was. 

But she’d dug herself into this hole now, and she supposed the only way out was through. Perhaps it would be best, she thought, to make use of borrowed words, since she was certain her own would fail her. And surely the Bard’s never would.

“My master,” she began, “for shape, for bearing, argument, and valour, goes foremost in report throughout Britain. He is the Baron of- of Phaeldon.” Zira stumbled over the name. Well, too late to change it now. She soldiered on, ignoring Crowley’s snort of- amusement? “Hearing of your beauty and your wit, your affability and bashful modesty-" (another quirk of Crowley's lips, at that) "-your wondrous qualities and mild behaviour, he sought you out. The very instant he saw you, lady, did his heart fly to your service; there resides, to make him slave to it.”

“Even so quickly may one catch the plague?” the demon drawled, studying her fingernails. (Oh, Crowley was quoting Shakespeare right back at her! Zira felt a surge of warmth; for a moment she could almost pretend it was a hundred years earlier and they were bantering good-naturedly over a bottle of wine.) “Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.”

“Oh, my master is not so young as that,” Zira assured her, but then worried that Crowley would imagine the fictitious baron as an old lecher preying on a younger woman. “But, er, not so old either! Indeed a- a most fitting age for you, lady.”

“Indeed?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow. 

Zira winced internally. Of course, human age was practically meaningless to beings such as them.

“Well in any case,” Zira doggedly pressed on, “now he dotes, devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry. But he was not born under a rhyming planet, and begged me in such desperation to woo you in his stead, that I was moved to do so.”

“Moved?” Crowley drawled, lazily. “Well then, in good time let him that moved you hither remove you hence.” Perdita, who had stepped discreetly into a corner—presumably waiting for Zira to be dismissed so she could finish helping her mistress out of her costume—laughed quietly.

“Oh, you are waspish, lady!” Zira objected, warming to her task. 

“If I be waspish best beware my sting. Or if I’m a snake, watch for my bite.” Crowley clicked her teeth emphatically.

Zira laughed helplessly. “I see what you are; you are too proud; but if you were the devil, you are fair.” Crowley pursed her lips at this. Oh dear, Zira would have to think more carefully before she spoke, lest she tip her hand. “But nonetheless, my lord and master loves you, lady,” she continued, trying to regain some semblance of control over the conversation. 

Crowley stretched, preening. (Zira couldn’t help but notice how well Violetta’s costume suited her. It was more daring than the fashions Zira was used to seeing Crowley wear these past few centuries—Violetta was a courtesan, after all—and the cut of the bodice left little to Zira’s imagination. Oh, she hoped her blush wasn’t too obvious.)

“Ms. Device?” Crowley said, interrupting this dangerous train of thought, sitting up and turning to look at Perdita in her corner.

“Yes, lady?” answered the young woman, snapping to attention.

“I find I won’t be needing any further services from you this evening. Please feel free to take the rest of the night off.”

Perdita looked startled. “If you say so, lady . . .”

“I do indeed. Go on, then, out with you!” Crowley waved her out. “Doubtless you’re worried for my reputation,” Crowley continued, smirking a little, “but this sweet servant is surely too dutiful, too obedient to tempt me to anything untoward.” 

Even through the dark glasses, Zira would swear she could feel the weight of Crowley’s gaze on her. She shivered as Perdita disappeared through the curtain and the dressing room door opened and then shut behind her; did these pointed words mean that the game was up, that Crowley knew who Zira really was?

But it appeared not, for Crowley flopped back down to the couch, just as she’d been before.

“Alright then, tell me,” drawled the lounging demon, “how does he love me, this baron of yours?” A flirtatious grin played across her lips.

Zira swallowed. Perhaps, in this disguise, under these false pretenses, she could find the courage to tell truths that she would never dare utter as herself. “With adorations, fertile tears, with groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire,” she said.

“Aye, as much as that? Yet if he wins me, will he try to curb my mad and headstrong humour?” Crowley asked, her mouth quirking with amusement. “For surely he has found I am neither so bashful nor so modest as was reported.”

“Nay, lady,” Zira protested fervently, “he loves you as you are. You, so perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature’s best.”

“Oh? Even if sometime am I all wound with adders, who with cloven tongues do hiss me into madness?”

“Even then, lady, he loves on. There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple.”

“Hm.” Crowley looked unconvinced, which was perhaps natural given that as a demon, she was supposed to be all ill and no temple. “Pray, servant, what is your name? I did not catch it.”

“Orlando is your servant’s name, fair princess,” Zira lied.

“My servant, sir?” Crowley laughed. “‘Twas never merry world since lowly feigning was called compliment. You’re servant to the baron.”

“And he is yours,” Zira replied, “and his must needs be yours. Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.”

Crowley contemplated that for a moment, her brow furrowing. “Is he mad, do you think, to love me so?”

Zira hesitated. (She must be mad, surely; everything about this ridiculous situation she’d gotten herself into was mad.) “Hard to say, my lady. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact.”

“Well, loving me is no addition to his wit, nor no great argument of his folly,” Crowley replied, gentling. “Tell me, how would he have you woo me?”

“With words, words, words,” Zira said. Her words—or really Shakespeare’s words, mostly—were all she could offer.

“Well, go on then, sweet Orlando! Let your tongue teach me to love your master.” 

“I will make an effort on his behalf, my lady, but your beauty outstrips all praise and makes it halt behind you.”

“Yes, please do make an effort.” Crowley said, and even through her glasses Zira could have sworn she saw a mischievous twinkle in the demon’s eye. Eyes- that was a place to start!

“To what shall he compare thine eyne?” Zira quoted. “Crystal is muddy in comparison.”

“Ah, an ill place to begin! No man has seen my eyes in many a year, for as everyone knows I suffer a dreadful sensitivity to light and am never without my glasses,” Crowley, smirking again, reminded her. 

Oh dear, that was quite right—eyes were perhaps the worst place for her to have started.

“O,” Zira tried again, “how ripe in show thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting to him grow!”

Crowley’s smirk grew wider still. “Forward, aren’t we? I would be wooed more delicately before we speak of kissing or cherries.”

Damn, another false start. Zira cast her mind frantically around, searching for something more appropriate to say. And then suddenly it was obvious.

“From the east to western Ind,” she began, “no jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth, being mounted on the wind, through all the world bears Rosalind. All the pictures fairest lined are but black to Rosalind. My master keeps no face in mind but the fair of Rosalind.”

Crowley’s smile had turned sweeter as Zira spoke. “Is your master so much in love as these rhymes speak?” she asked.

“Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much,” Zira replied, meaning every word.

“And yet I would bid him wrestle with his affection,” Crowley said, a crease forming between her brows. “For I cannot love the man, nor take no shape nor project of affection.”

“Is that so, my lady?” Zira asked, disappointed in spite of herself. Other angels had said that demons were incapable of love, but Zira had always harboured a suspicion—a hope—that this was untrue.

Crowley must have seen the distress writ upon her face, for the demon’s expression softened again. 

“Pardon me, sweet Orlando. I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.” She paused, appearing lost in thought. Then she perked up, mouth twitching into another sly grin. “What, pray tell, is your master’s name?”

“His name?” Zira said, taken aback. She had all but forgotten the fictional baron for a moment.

“Yes, I should think his lady mother did not simply name him ‘Baron.’ That would be a foolish name indeed. And do I not have a right to know how to address my would-be suitor, should we ever meet?”

“Ah, yes, of course, my lady. His name, is ah-“ Zira scrambled and came up blank. “His name is Orlando, too.”

“Really? How confusing.” Zira could have sworn she saw a twinkle of mirth in Crowley’s eye, even through the dark lenses. “Well, no matter. The night is yet young; please continue your sweet wooing.”

“Certainly, my lady.” Zira paused, sifting through her memories for another appropriate verse. “Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boist’rous, and it pricks like thorn. It makes Orlando weep.”

“Your master Orlando, you mean, and not yourself, surely?” Crowley asked, cocking an eyebrow. Zira nodded, suddenly grateful that she’d given the fictitious baron the same name as the fictitious musician. Oh, what a tangled web she’d woven . . . 

“Tell me then, wherefore does that Orlando weep?” Crowley prodded.

“At his unworthiness, that dare not offer what he desires to give, and much less take what he shall die to want,” Zira replied. “Down upon his knees he falls, weeps, beats his heart, tears his hair, prays, curses. And the ecstasy hath so much overborne him that his servants are sometime afeared he will do a desperate outrage to himself.”

“Oh, how dramatic!” Crowley exclaimed appreciatively. 

“But to what end to tell you all this?” Zira asked, pouting exaggeratedly. If Crowley wanted drama, she’d get drama. “You would make but a sport of it and torment the poor man worse.”

“Nay!” Crowley placed a hand over her heart, in a mockery of woundedness. “How could you think me so wicked a fiend?”

Zira was not sure what she could say to that. Luckily Crowley did not seem to expect an answer. 

“In any case,” Crowley continued, her voice dropping low and sultry all of a sudden, “let’s dispense with these convoluted constructions, ‘My master says he weeps for love of you, my lady.’”

“My lady?” Zira responded, made nervous by the abrupt change in Crowley’s tone. “How would you have me address his praises, then?”

Crowley grinned like the cat that got the cream. “I must insist that you simply speak to me in your master’s voice: ‘ _I_ weep for love of you, Rosalind.’ Surely simplicity and directness will make more meet fodder for burgeoning affection.”

Zira stared at her. “If you say so, my lady,” she said, doubtfully. Oh dear, she was in over her head. Wouldn’t this make their conversation more confusing, not less? If she didn’t know better she’d almost think Crowley was torturing her on purpose.

“Rosalind,” Crowley corrected.

“Right. Yes. Rosalind.” Zira swallowed, then took a deep breath. “My sweet Rosalind, you shine as gloriously as the Venus of the sky. The all-seeing sun ne’er saw your match since first the world begun. O, you do teach the torches of my love to burn bright! Nature presently distilled Helen’s cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra’s majesty, Atalanta’s better part, sad Lucretia’s modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts by heavenly synod was devised, of many faces, eyes, and hearts, to have the touches dearest prized. I am-" Zira halted, at a loss for words, "-am overcome, vanquished, by the puissance of my love.”

Crowley, before her, was sitting in uncharacteristic stillness on her couch, her face warm with something very like affection. 

“I must confess, my dear Orlando,” she said slowly, “I find I do love nothing in the world so well as you.”

Zira was stunned. She hadn’t expected this to _work_ , hadn’t expected much of anything when she’d come stumbling blindly into Crowley’s dressing room. Oh dear, if she’d known that all she’d have to do to win Crowley’s heart was to quote some Shakespeare at her, these past couple of centuries might have been far more pleasant.

“You- you mean you love my master, of course,” Zira stammered.

“Hm.” Crowley smiled enigmatically. “Come sit beside me.” She patted the cushion beside her on the couch. Zira, trembling, took a seat, all too aware of how close the demon was now.

“Now tell me,” Crowley continued, “what would he say in answer to my confession?”

Seized with a mad urge, Zira heard herself say, “He would kiss before he spoke.” And then she blushed furiously, covering her traitorous mouth with a hand. What had gotten into her?

Crowley, luckily, seemed amused. And, if Zira’s eyes did not deceive her- was she a little flushed, too? “Nay, he had best speak first. A love so new demands to be fed before it will bloom.”

Zira was silent for a long moment, trying to get her thoughts in order. 

“Forgive me, Rosalind, I find I am quite overwhelmed by your most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,” she confessed.

“Ah, well then.” Crowley smiled again, gentle as anything, and Zira felt her heart might burst with love. “In face of such flattery, how can I fault you for being so bold? Here, take my hand, perhaps I can steady you.”

Crowley held out her hand; Zira stared at it for a moment, overcome, before taking it tentatively with one of her own. If she were allowed this, could she perhaps hope for more . . . ? 

Oh, it was so wrong to be hiding her identity from Crowley like this, but if she didn’t take her chance now, she’d have eternity to regret it. 

She breathed in deeply, then began to quote once more, her voice shaking. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Crowley’s mouth twitched in recognition. “Good pilgrim,” she replied, “you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.”

Zira’s throat was dry; she licked her lips, trying not to be distracted by the way she could feel Crowley’s gaze follow her tongue. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” Zira continued.

“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.” Crowley was trembling now, too, with laughter or anticipation or something else entirely.

“O, then, dear saint,” Zira said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, “let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake,” Crowley whispered back. 

“Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.” And at these words—Zira could scarcely believe it—Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, and she presented her mouth to be kissed.

Tentatively, and oh so gently, Zira closed the distance between them. As their lips brushed, an electric current seemed to tear through her, and she shivered. And oh, she wanted to deepen the kiss, to take, to own, to ravage-

With a valiant effort, she pulled away, afraid to push for more, terrified by the strength of her own reaction. 

“Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged,” Crowley murmured.

“Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” Zira replied, dazed. 

“Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.” 

Again? Oh yes, again- Crowley was the one to move first this time, crushing her lips to Zira’s with a fiery passion. Zira’s mouth opened helplessly, and she moaned as Crowley’s tongue began to explore her mouth and Crowley’s arms came up to wrap around her shoulders-

“Oh!” Zira cried, tearing herself away, “Oh, this isn’t right! My master-“

“Bugger all that,” Crowley snarled, ”I would have you. You and you alone I love-“

“No!” Zira protested, desperate. “I pray you do not fall in love with _me_ , for I am falser than vows made in wine-“

Crowley, exasperated, yanked off her glasses. “Oh, come off it, Aziraphale.”

Zira froze.

“You- You knew,” she breathed. Crowley nodded, and at least she had the good grace to look a little sheepish. “Oh, but then you have been teasing me most dreadfully!” Zira cried. 

“No more than you, me,” Crowley objected. “The Baron of _Phaeldon_? Also named Orlando? Please.” She rolled her eyes. 

“So you knew it was me from the very beginning?” Oh, Zira felt rather foolish now. 

“Your disguise did leave rather a lot to be desired. Speaking of which, can you put your face back to normal? I’ve missed it,” Crowley confessed. 

Zira blushed scarlet. “I, er- I’m on probation. No miracles for me for another couple of weeks, I’m afraid,” 

“A helpless, powerless angel in my dressing room!” Crowley exclaimed delightedly, looking positively devilish even as she snapped her fingers, graciously restoring Zira’s face to its usual state. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Oh, peace!” Zira muttered, rolling her eyes affectionately. “I will stop your mouth.”

Several minutes later, Zira managed to pull away long enough to ask, “Did you mean it, then?”

“Mean what?”

“That you- That you _love_ me.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley looked at her, eyes burning. “Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love.”

“Oh my darling,” Zira murmured, “I’ll never doubt again.”


End file.
